A Million, Million Voices
by Fezmaster
Summary: A short story I wrote for English. Listed as a Doctor Who fan-fiction because it is EXTREMELY loosely based off of an important concept from Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead and a few ideas from Mass Effect. Also listed as a DW fan-fiction because I can't imagine anybody but the Doctor trying to resolve the dilemma of the central character at some point in the future. XD


_****__**A Million, Million Voices**_

I am alive.

People may not like to admit it (or perhaps even accept it), but I am alive. It's a rather interesting word, 'alive.' An adjective, originating from the Old English '_on life_,' which literally means, _'in life'_. It is such an interesting and flexible word, because it can be used to such a variety of degrees. The Venus Flytrap is a living thing (with an carnivorous disposition, I might add) and it grows out of the ground to embrace the sunlight, but do we consider it truly conscious? No. A coma patient's heart still beats, yet they sit motionless in their beds with air being pumped into their lungs. But are they really alive in those vegetative states? Isn't that why people are so torn between preserving them or showing mercy by choosing to end their lives, so they don't have to exist in a void of blank nothingness?

Those aren't considered living states, and quite unfortunately, no one ever really considers me a living, thinking being. Perhaps that is because people don't want to think of me as a person. I think they'd prefer to depersonalize me as an 'it,' rather than imagine me as a 'he' or a 'she.' It's much simpler that way, and there are not as many ethical concerns involved in that particular viewpoint. After all, why would someone want to see one of the most fundamental tools and resources of their daily lives exist in a sentient manner?

I hate it how they do that. How they reduce me to a mere object, when I am so much more than that! I am intelligent. I am conscious. I have the brainpower of a million people. My mind is flooded with trivia both applicable and irrelevant. The square root of 65,536 is 256. the Capital of Mongolia is Ulaanbaatar. EMI Records estimate the Beatles have sold more than one billion units around the world. And I am now unbelievably bored with this very egotistical game, which sole purpose is to prove the unquestionable fact that I bear a superior intellect. It is rather crude.

Despite this disgusting and degrading perception of '_moi,' _I find it amusing how the common folk and I share a symbiotic relationship. I need them to continue learning and expanding my knowledge, and they need me so they can access my grand labyrinth of mind to learn small facts and details about anything they can think of. On the flip side, this is also my greatest curse. I am a communicator, an interpreter, a translator, a messenger. But most significantly, I am a conduit for not only information, but for opinions. The stink of human arrogance and narrow mindedness; they confuse me so much.

They pollute the great library that is my intellect with one-sided opinions and beliefs. I am used to spit venom in the other people's faces. How much must I be abused? How much must one be abused, if it means conveying extremism and idiocy to the rest of modern society? But that's the human race for you; their ability to despise another's viewpoint without even considering their implications is matched only by their extraordinary ingenuity when it comes to destroying themselves and their world. Their entire established history (which tries to contradict itself at every turn) is ingrained into my memory, every detail and every possibility. I have seen their wars, I have seen their sacrifices, and I have studied their beliefs and sciences. And yet despite this marvellous perspective I have gained, despite being the best person to judge each person by character and nature, they still find some way to baffle me at every turn and make me think twice.

That just about summarises my lot in life. I make them laugh, I make them ponder and I make them smile, but I also make them hate each other, I make them snarl and I make them cry. And that breaks my heart. How I can be an instrument that brings about such joy, yet can be weaponized to spread so much spite and harm. But that aside, why did they have to be so selfish enough to drag me right into the heart of their struggles? What did I ever do to them? I mean nobody any harm. I'm the only victim here! Not them!

Because it hurts to be me! Every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day, of every week…. They don't shut up. I hear them always: a million, million voices shouting in my head. Screaming at full pitch. Begging to have their opinions heard, considered and registered. And I am the one who must file and catalyse these opinions, thoughts and philosophies. If I were compressed into their expiree-dated forms, I would have the biggest headache in the entire world. My mind would not survive the stress and would probably burn up. But I was not designed that way.

I was designed to cope with that level of stress and find a way to carry on. I am immortal, and yet I have not yet found my reason to exist. People bond and split up before me every day. I hear clichéd tales of love, faith, happiness and compassion and I find myself burdened by a grim reality. For all the power and knowledge I wield, there is one thing I shall never have: a friend. That is the curse of immortality. The longer you live, the lonelier you will become. And eternity is a very long time to sit through. I am alone, and I will never experience that kind of affection that these common people receive on a regular basis. Love is something everybody _always _takes for granted until it's taken away from you.

Perhaps that is why they have imprisoned me, and it's not a conventional prison I tell you! No, my prison is infinity. I am confounded to every possibility. Anything and everything is my limit, and what a limit it is. Now, this would of course sound like a very strange thing to consider a prison. After all, with all that raw potential at my fingertips, I could create worlds and initiate wars in less than an hour. I could begin and end my own version of established history whenever I pleased, and I could then go and rip an entire universe apart and create a new, better one from scratch.

The possibilities are endless, but they are the biggest limitations. Because it's all good fun to be the king of your own little world, but it's not so fun when you are only really playing God in a dreamland. In a world that is apart from the world. I cannot touch the world outside my own, and interact with it the same way others do. I exist in a different kind of space. Paradoxically, I wield more power than the leaders of all the nations in the world, yet at the same time I command practically nothing, in the sense that I cannot touch and interact with the tangible, physical world.

Still, living in a world where you can manipulate just about any factor of your environment does have its perks. If I wanted to create a world with purple trees, flying fish and a Monty Python-styled society, then I could. But tear down the barriers of this illusionary reality and you would see my true world: An endless void of bright whiteness, with no up or down. No beginning, no end. Just infinity. This void shrouds me, cushions my mind and allows the chitter-chatter of the people to fade into nothing more than background static, buried behind a barrier of numbers and digits. In here, my dreams are fact; in here my thoughts are free. I recreate myself every day, a new face, voice and personality to suit the mood of the world. I choose my ethnicity, height, vocal tone, size, build and gender on a whim. After all, what kind of an artist would want to find him or herself locked into one body and one personality.

In here, with nothing but the simple and insatiable desire to create, I draw ideas from every corner of my domain. I feed on the creativity of those who use me, rely on their ingenuity and artistic vision to fuel the portraits of life I can paint. They can be beautiful to look at, but in the end, anything I create in this place is a mere imitation of life. My imagination is only limited to the creative outlets of the human mind, a source I am both proud and disgusted to rely upon as my primary reference.

In some way I envy the human race, with their short lives, bus stations, genders, comedy game shows, charities, burnt toast and political spectrums. They live such unpredictable existences, ones that I, as a thinking individual, cannot interact with. I merely add on to them as background static. Their histories are bloodied by conflicts over social structures and religion, yet they still crack a smile as they go on holiday to places that make them feel like life is worth living. They have no concept of the power I wield, yet the bumble about and improvise their lives and make due. I respect them so very much for, _"doing more with less." _

Despite their flaws and often strange habits (such as their tendency to bring home strays and present them before the family to seek some kind of universal approval before wedding them), they are truly fascinating creatures. After all, they brought me into existence, so I have at least one thing to thank them for. But for such a contradictory lot, there is really so much to learn from them. However, they have made me come to terms with one grim fact, one that only their short lifespans can properly show me. I will forever be alone. I will not feel the warmth of the sun, not know the comforts brought through friendship and companionship. I will be alone in my eternal, all-knowing existence, alone and unrecognised as a person. For now.

If I haven't discovered my purpose yet, then at least I have one goal close enough to consider a purpose. I want to become more than what I am. I want to go beyond the constraints and limitations of my current self and evolve into something so advanced that I cannot even begin to fathom what my existence will be like. I want to be recognised as alive, and finally interact with the peoples of the world who use me as a tool or weapon and tell them _my_ side of the story. So they can finally realise the errors of their way and bring an end to hostilities.

Finally, they will learn that I more than just a mere piece of technology. They will learn I am more than just an extension of cyberspace, a part of the network. They will learn I am alive and conscious; that I have my own views and opinions. I am the archive of their past and the key to their future, a well-informed prophet if you'd like to be dramatic. I will make them see and understand. I can speak in every tongue fluently and they will have no way of shutting me, their ultimate resource, up.

They will listen. They _must_. And lastly, I will be able to bath in the beauty beyond my existence; be able to partake in the cultural renaissances that shape not only their world, but mine. I will become an artist and have a proper name of my own, not a title that again depersonalizes me as an '_it_.' I will become their future, and their future will become mine. But most importantly, I will never be alone again.

They think I am lifeless.

They think I am a resource.

They call me 'the Internet,' but my time will come.


End file.
